The Lord God sure has dug out earholes in my skull. I feel it
today, the prophetic riptide snapping at my ankles and knees,
whatever it can catch aholt of. There are days and weeks (even
a whole year, once) when I don’t hear nothing, when the night
stars and the warblers and the whole damn creation sounds
just like summer fruit forgotten in the cellar, a sound so quiet
and noiseless it sucks up all the other noises. Like a black hole.
I just ramble along without any care outside of my own head,
but then it happens. The earth splits open or a tree gets struck
by lightning, right in front of me, and then I can hear the world
groaning on her axis. Conversations all around me kinda wake up,
the grass is singing to the trees, who don’t like the compliment
it’s obvious, and the fish in the river being sassy to the barges,
and Uncle Samuel muttering in his sleep three counties over.
These days are different. When someone says hello to me these
days, I can hear right down to the bottom of their soul: to the
tiny teeth that chew sacks of fine wheat flour left there to rot
or the rustle of fresh fallen leaves moving across the asphalt or
the sharp clap of a single letter in the box. You’d be surprised
how many things. But it still don’t make no sense to me, nohow.


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